One day, we looked up and saw that Soprano was probably dead, Thompson, White, and Teller were definitely dead, and that Draper was technically alive but nearly as dead inside as when we first met him. So, after staring at the row of bad-boy corpses, we became certain we could heal the gaping hole in our hearts by disavowing characters with moral complexities and returning to the innocent love of our youth. Placing flowers on the graves of men with unchecked ambition and TV-MA bloodlust, we drove home to the row of pretty houses on the slanted San Francisco hill, knocked on the Tanner family door, and begged “Full House” to make us happy once again.

The ever-faithful “Full House” was, of course, waiting for this moment, as the Jimmy Fallon and Dannon yogurt quasi-reunions prove. The Tanners were always going to take us back, not only because they spent eight seasons preaching forgiveness, but also because the tragic flaw of the innocent is to mistake attention for love. So off we were to Vegas for the drive-thru wedding. We wore our dress, convinced that “Full House’s” saccharine kiss could take away the taste of anti-hero overkill. “Full House” wore his tuxedo, just happy to have someone pay attention to him for the first time in two decades. “Full House” swore to give us as many new episodes as we wanted, and we swore to binge watch them all.

But deep in our hearts, we both know this isn’t going to work. After spending years watching a bunch of men murder any friend or family member who inhibited the expansion of their kingdoms, we know that we won’t actually watch a trio of saints serenade some precocious child after the nostalgia wears off. Likewise, Uncle Joey has to know that, when we stuck with our ex Walter for two years after he tried to poison a kid, we’re not going to stick around to be entertained by his woodchuck puppet or his Popeye impression.